Thunder
by Busked
Summary: Volatile and unruly. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

For the third night that week she lay in bed, strung tightly like a piano string. Her hands neatly placed on her stomach, her eyes staring at the ceiling. She could hear them above her, clattering around in the kitchen. She could hear the hum of their voices through the floors. She could hear nonsensical words being thrown around, Russian last names it sounded like.

221C Baker street wasn't as expected. I mean, she wasn't even sure what there was to expect—maybe she was hoping for a posh British women to live above her, invite her to her cocktail nights to show off to her friends. Look at my American friend! She would've drawled, had she existed.

Instead were two men, she hadn't met them, but they terrified her. This feeling in her stomach told her they were bad news.

She rolled over: 3:04 AM screamed at her. Not like it mattered, it just meant at 7 'O clock she would be getting up for another round of job interviews. _A little under qualified, no?_

Fresh out of college, the idea of travel on her mind, but all she had gotten was a dreadfully long flight, some sort of 24 hour flu, and a miserable little room where the people above her enjoyed torturing her by playing violin into the wee hours.

She sighed audibly, dragging herself out of bed. She grabbed her pack of smokes, and walked in the darkness to her door.

As she entered the hallway, she shut the door behind her. She felt the overwhelming need to slam her head into it. At least they had withheld the violin tonight.

"Hello?"

A voice awoke her from her dazed stupor. She turned around where a man with blonde hair stood, buttoning up his coat as if he were leaving.

"Hi. A bit late to be going out, no?"

"I could say the same for you" He laughed, "What are you up to?"

She wiggled her cigarette packet at him, leaning back against her door.

"Oh. Well, I hope we haven't kept you up with our n—"

Another man came banging down the stairs, throwing his scarf over his shoulder; he looked her over very briefly.

"I know we haven't been very accommodating neighbours. Sorry again. I'm John."

She smiled slightly.

"Margo."

"That's a hideous name, I'm assuming your mother thought that was a touching way of remembering your grandmother?" Spat the taller one, before exiting.

Her smile dropped. Then the all to familiar venom sunk in, the infamous anger that nestled in her stomach, always awake, always waiting.

"That's Sherlock, sorry about that. Have a good one."

Then she was left alone with that horrible feeling in her stomach.

She didn't even leave for a smoke.

xxx

She opened her eyes to him.

Not his pacing footsteps, his loud talking, or his endless hours of violin, but him.

"Lighter sleeper than I thought."

"Was that all you thought about when you decided it was a clever idea to enter my room?"

"Yes, well I'm afraid I left something here prior to your whole…arrival."

"There wasn't anything here when I came."

He didn't answer, instead he kept moving around her room, in search of God knows what.

She turned over: 5:30. Brilliant. She hadn't slept a wink, and that feeling in her stomach still remained.

"Do you do this to all your new neighbours?"

He grunted, ruffling through her pile of laundry.

"Do you mind?"

He suddenly stood erect and began to go towards the door.

"…Thank you?"

He began to pat along the outside of the frame.

She felt her eyes practically roll to the back of her head.

"Look, can y—"

"I thought since you weren't sleeping you wouldn't particularly mind. The jetlag should wear off by tomorrow night."

"Oh, it wore off already." She glared.

"Excellent!" He exclaimed as he recovered something tucked into the doorframe. Nothing surprised her at this point.

He began to leave.

"Wait."

He stopped.

"It's Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I know. But what are you?"

"God help the man who knows."


	2. Chapter 2

When she did dream, it was of America. She dreamt like movies, shot by shot. Establishing the setting; a bedroom, medium shot on her, then a close up to her dry lips. She was dreaming but she knew she was angry. In her dreams she was always angry. Close up on her mother's face as she enters the room and he is crying, wailing, screeching until he is practically—

She awoke to the scream of her alarm: 6:45 AM.

She scraped the sleep out of the corner of her eyes and pressed the off button.

Flipping open her phone she is greeted by a message from her Canadian friend wishing her a "Happy Thanksgiving". Confused for a moment, she stares at the message, until it settles in that she is in Britain now, meaning different holidays. Today was some sort of similar holiday, but not exactly. She shrugged, throwing her phone back onto her bedside and hurling herself out of bed.

Another realization hit her, if today is "Thanksgiving" then that means tonight is the 221 Baker Street dinner. The night she would spend getting to know her cheery Landlord and ever so polite housemates.

_Sherlock._ She hadn't spoken to him for over two weeks. Not like she was complaining. Her stomach always felt better when she wasn't around him, though-no anger, no nothing. She didn't feel the urge.

She removed her pajamas and began to dress into her work clothing in the darkness. The only news she called home about was her full time

Tonight would be a challenge.

xxx

As she exited the front door she bumped into John.

"Your hair." He grinned, reaching forward and running his hands through the fringe. Margo was unsure whether or not they were at that stage of friendship yet, but she let it slide, playing nimbly with the choppy ends. She had done it herself a few nights ago; she noticed it had become a hassle to tie up at work.

"I thought with the whole moving to England thing, that cutting all my hair off wasn't that big of a deal." She smiled.

"I think it…uh…"frames your face"? Is that right? That's a thing, righ—"

"Yeah, it is. Thanks. "

"No problem. "

The two stood in silence waiting for the other to say something.

"Shou—" "I think that Sh—"

They both stopped short, making eye contact with each other's necks.

"You go first." He muttered, a polite smile on his lips.

"No, it's fine, I—"

"I insist."

"…Well, I was just curious if I should bring anything for tonight?"

"Perhaps some wine? I can't imagine anything else will really be needed."

She swallowed hard, then nodded her head in agreement.

"Ok. Yeah. I can do that."

"Cool."

"Yes."

"Well…"

"Hmm?"

"See you later."

"Yeah. You too."

"Cheers."

He walked out and her lungs finally began to work properly. God, what was it with her neighbours that did this to her?

xxx

Wine in hand, she nervously knocked three times on 221A Baker Street. The soft padding of feet could be heard, and the door opened to reveal .

"Hello dear! Come in!"

Margo stepped in, practically thrusting the bottle of alcohol into Mrs. Hudson's hands.

"Sorry I'm late. I appreciate you inviting me."

"None of that. I only made it that early with the knowledge that Sherlock and John would be late. You're actually right…" A knock sounded through the room as looked at her watch "On time."

She grinned cheekily at Margo as she went over to answer the door.

"Lovely apartment you have." John said as he politely kissed his Landlord on the cheek.

"I see you invited the alcoholic to this event."

Her stomach could've ripped her in two the pain was so unbearable.


	3. Chapter 3

Wine bottle in hand, she nervously knocked three times on 221A Baker Street. The soft padding of feet could be heard, and the door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello dear! Come in!"

Margo stepped in, practically thrusting the bottle of alcohol into Mrs. Hudson's hands.

"Sorry I'm late. I appreciate you inviting me."

"None of that. I only made it this early with the knowledge that Sherlock and John would be late. You're actually right…" A knock sounded through the room as looked at her watch "On time."

She grinned cheekily at Margo as she went over to answer the door.

"Lovely apartment you have." John said as he politely kissed his Landlord on the cheek.

"Thank you, dear." She took their coats.

Margo found herself watching Sherlock gaze around the room, until his eyes finally landed on her.

"I see you invited the alcoholic to this event."

Her stomach could've ripped her in two the pain was so unbearable.

Xxx

Margo was never good on her toes.

"Good one." A fake laugh forced it's way out of her mouth. The rest of the company still remained fairly quiet.

"Nevermind him, he's just crabby. Hasn't slept, heard him playing violin until far too late." She shot a look at him.

The tightness in her chest lessened when they all began to sit down, starting up a conversation about nothing in particular. Despite how much she tried not to, she found herself boring holes into her plate with her eyes. He had known. She wasn't like that anymore. She wasn't that anymore.

"So how are you enjoying it here, dear?"

Margo snapped out of her reverie.

"It's pretty great. Quite a culture shock, for sure."

"I can imagine. How's your work going?"

"It's good, just n—"

"Not what you came here for?" His intense blue eyes lifted from his meal to meet hers.

"Yes."

She held uncomfortable eye contact with him. Only to find her face shift into some sort of a disgusted snarl—at least that's what she imagined it looked like.

"Hmm, What did you come here for?" Watson managed, after finishing chewing her chicken.

"I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years, and I wanted a break. You know how things can be."

"I'm so sorry." John muttered, clearly she had struck a sensitive subject with the man.

"Tell me—Margo, was it?- why do you feel the need to lie?"

John practically choked, giving Sherlock another look to add to his collection for the evening.

That sensation of shame sunk in again, of course he had caught her. How was he able to keep doing that? It was starting to make her incredibly uncomfortable, and the only way to face uncomfortableness in Margo's books was to make it further uncomfortable.

She just stared at him. The cold air from the fan circling above her stung her skin, creeping it's way across her flesh into goosebumps.

Something took over.

She could feel her words betraying her as she turned to Mrs. Hudson and said: "Mind if I have some wine?"

"Not at all, dear."

"Good."

It felt like slow motion as she got up from her and fetched the freshly opened bottle.

She began to pour herself a glass, her eyes carefully following the maroon liquid as it entered her glass. Her hand was shaking, she knew he could see it, but she carried on anyways.

"Anyone?" She attempted to croak out casually.

Mrs. Hudson and John offered their glasses.

She swallowed hard before pouring more.

xxx

She had managed to sit him down on her bed.

"Stop. Okay. Don't move." She laughed, her face flushed, her short hair glued to her forehead with sweat. She lifted her hands into a "frame" shape. Keeping her hands like that, she spoke. "I went to film school, you know?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. I used to love to film the way men looked. They just have these freaky details that women don't have!" Her words caught up with her and she nearly fell over from laughing so hard. She managed to push out a "That's not what I meant!".

She realized she had landed somehow with her head against his knee, her body lazily splayed across her wooden floor.

She looked up at him. The moment felt long, and drawn out.

"I'm not going to sleep with you." She managed.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to ruin your life."

"How would you be ruining my life? We're ad—"

"Because I want to ruin someone else's."

He looked at her.

"I'm going to ruin him."

He found himself laughing, her words purring in his ears, his mind reeling wildly and next thing he knew he was lying on her bed.

She climbed on top of him sloppily.

"I'm going to ruin Sherlock Holmes." She stated, as if it were fact.

"Oh really?" He grinned, "And how exactly will you do that?"

"I'll make him fall in love with me."

John was already asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

She forgets for the second week in a row to turn her alarm off on Friday as to not be awoken on Saturday. But once she is up it's practically impossible to fall back asleep.

She collects her lighter and pack and fetches some proper pants before launching herself into the cold.

"Good morning, Margret."

"It's Margo."

She cannot decide whether or not she is better off killing him or returning back inside. Either way, both would be more pleasant than smoking a cigarette next to him.

"You smoke?" She manages, what her mother would address as "an attempt to appear normal".

"Rarely. Only when I'm feeling particularly bored." He says as though it were clear as day.

"Ah." She manages, her stomach jittering wildly as she attempts to light her cigarette. She stands there for a moment, struggling against the breeze and her lighter.

She snarls impatiently. A sudden surge of confidence (or anger maybe?) overcomes her as she grabs Sherlock's cigarette out of his mouth and places it against the end of hers, eventually causing some ignition.

He coldly returns the cigarette to his lips without a word.

"Do you want to know how I knew you were lying?"

"Depends."

"Hmm?"

"On which lie."

"Which would you prefer?"

"Hmm."

The two smoke in silence, Sherlock finishes his first and tosses it onto the street.

"The five year relationship one—you know, the reason I moved here."

"Oh. That one was easy."

"How so?"

"You're far too unstable to stay with someone for five years.

XXX

A soft knock at her door causes her to shutter in fright.

"Gah—yes?"

"It's me."

"Come in, actually, one second."

She pulls her boxer shorts up a little bit.

"Okay, come in."

John lets himself in and slowly pads his way over to where she is sitting.

"Your floor is freezing, how can you sit on it?"

"I manage."

"What in the world are you doing?"

"Will you think I'm lame if I tell you?"

"Potentially."

"Well, when I was a first year—"

"In College?"

"No, high school actually."

"Seems so long ago for you, doesn't it?"

"Says the man almost eight years older than me."

"Anyways…"

The two grin at each other.

"Anyways, I was friends with a bunch of girls—"

"—Extroardinary!"

"Will you let me finish?"

"Yes."

"We were all into really superstitious stuff and "weird" movies and all that and…I taught myself tarot. It sort of stuck. I'm not sure if I believe in it, but it's more a habit than anything."

"So what do these cards mean?"

"This is a daily reading about myself. These three cards represent my past, my present, and my future."

"So this guy..?"

"My past card is Five of Pentacles."

"Which means?"

"A loss, often self-created."

"And this?"

"My present card is The Hanged Man."

"Yes?"

"Waiting. Suspension."

"And the future?"

She flips the last card over.

"This is the Death card—"

"Pleasant."

"Well, it's a good thing in tarot…sort of. "

John looks at her skeptically.

"Nothing is destroyed, no one dies. It just means transformation of some kind. It means change."


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock."

He can see her through the window; taking vicious drags from her cigarette, greasy hair scattered across her forehead, she is pacing back and forth a long the block.

"…Sherlock?"

He watches her toss her cigarette to the pavement, mumble some sort of mantra he can't seem to lip-read from this distance, soon followed by her re-entering the house.

"Sherlock, you've been staring out that window for the last half hour."

Sherlock swivels his head in John's direction.

"Your acquaintance is home."

John's eyebrows shoot up, a grin playing on his lips.

"Is she? That's nic—wait, is that why you've been staring out that window?"

Sherlock doesn't even bat a lash.

"You've been waiting for her haven't you?"

The detective opens his mouth to reply with what John presumed to be his usual amount of blunt quips, but is interrupted by a hammering at the door.

"John?" Came Margo's voice from behind the door of 221b.

John shoots Sherlock a look, as if to say 'I won', as he heads towards the door.

"She's been fired. Her boss thinks she's too moody."

John stops midstride, whipping around.

"That's not true, Margo is perfectl—"

A soft wailing noise emits from outside the door, followed by a few weak knocks.

Sherlock and John share a look.

"Shut up."

Xxx

"Are you sure you want to see this?"

"Of course."

Margo dries off her short hair once more before throwing the towel on the floor.

She joins John on her bed and opens up her laptop, the soft hum filling the silence of the room. She pulls her oversized shirt over her curled up legs until only her toes peak out from under.

"I might have to look away, I haven't watched this thing in years. I remind you that I am by no means an expert filmmaker. Don't expect some sort of masterpiece. "

"I'm sure it's great, Marg."

Margo physically shutters.

"I beg of you, don't call me that. You sound like my Mom."

He laughs quietly, as she opens up the file and presses play.

The video starts.

She notes his warmth next to her. She had made a friend. Her mother would have responded positively to this if they were still in touch.

It is in this moment she remembers why she moved her in the first place. Her stomach clenchs.

Just as the dialogue is about to begin, she presses pause.

John flinches in surprise, turning to look at Margo who has her head buried into her hands.

"Wha…Margo? Are you alright?

"I jufh…"

He takes her hands from her face.

"I just can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself."

He wishes he could kiss her or hold her without it being considered an inappropriate gesture.

Does that make sense?"

She stares at his eyes so intently he feels as if she's trying to see through him.

Xxx

"Are you intoxicated?"

"No, Mom." Margo hisses venomously, turning around to see her favourite neighbour.

"I don't believe you."

"Are you going to send me to my room or something?"

She makes sure to enunciate well in some moronic (and she knows it) attempt to fool the world's most hyperaware man that she was in fact sober.

She fumbles with her front door keys, trying to place them in the lock. She drops them in her drunken state. She can practically hear Sherlock smirk.

She turns around to meet his judgemental gaze.

"Did you follow me down to my room just to patronize me?"

He doesn't respond.

She rolls her eyes.

"Good night." He pushes these words out in the most demeaning fashion he can before turning back up the staircase.

She can feel a swell of thoughts rumble in her stomach and fumble their way up and threw her mouth.

"Why do you hate me?"

He blinks, and makes an expression that leads her to believe he is slightly startled and for a moment he seems unsure what to say.

She assumes it is the disillusioning quality of the alcohol.

"I mean, if you know everything about me, and you know why I'm here, and all my dark, twisted, fucked up, hidden away shit -why do you hate me?"

He takes a moment, observing her quietly.

For a hint of a second she considers brushing his bangs out of his face.

"Hmm." He finally says, snapping her out of her thoughts. "It appears I was wrong."

And with that, he enters 221b leaving Margo and the aftertaste of her liquid courage.


	6. Chapter 6

"You have heterochromia, don't you?"

She is so close to his face, that he almost immediately assumes she is drunk.

However, when the coolness of her breath hits his face, he can smell she is not.

"Perhaps."

She pulls back from him, making eye contact.

"You mean to tell me that the most observant man on the planet doesn't know his own eye colour?"

He frowns, and chooses to ignore her by pretending to indulge in the newspaper in front of him. However, her eyes are still on him.

"That's kind of cute."

He flinches, and she can't help but grin.

He notes her unusual level of cheeriness this morning. He can only presume that the reasoning for this is either:

She took place in sexual activity? (Or is going to?)

For a moment he wonders if it was with John, before realizing the state of her pupils, and her body language have not differed enough for this to have taken place.

She is having a manic episode.

He was still trying to decipher whether Margo suffered from PTSD, Bi-polar or Manic Depression. Ever since the conversation they had a few nights ago, his theories were up in the air.

She had slept well?

By the state of her eyes and hair this was clearly untrue.

She was excited to John

She never seems this excited usually.

She was excited to see him?

He furrowed his eyebrows, mulling over the concept.

"So, is John getting here soon? He told me he had a surprise for me!"

"Of course. " He mumbles, understanding the reasoning for her excitement now. He felt slightly foolish.

"Hmm? Care to share what you just mumbled, ?"

She leans in closer beside him on the couch until her face is far too close for his comfort.

"No."

He gets up and strides to the other side of the room to fix the positioning of his favourite decoration: a skull.

John entered through the front door. He removed his raincoat with a sigh before joining Margo on the couch. For a moment him and Margo remained fixated on Sherlock, who now had his back towards them as he quietly had a conversation with his skull.

"Alright then." John managed, slapping his hands onto his legs. "You're probably curious why I invited you all here today."

Margo and Sherlock both turned towards him.

"Well, Sherlock, as you may or may not know, Margo here is an ex-film student."

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow.

John continued.

"And if I do recall, our recent case involves discovering whether or not Amanda Livington, B-List Model and Actor is in fact guilty for the murder of Chelsea Faust's brothe—"

"No." Sherlock interrupted.

"I haven't even told you my idea yet!"

"No. She is not helping us with the case."

"Why?" Margo asked evenly.

"Firstly, " Sherlock began to pace angrily to and forth the room, "she is far too impulsive to be trusted with something of this great importance. Secondly, she may be a film student, but she isn't an actress, nor is she trained to a professional's extent with a camera. Thirdly, she would just get in the way."

From the corner of her eye she could see John's face redden in anger.

"Well, thank you for that . That was very insightful."

The rest of the world blurred, and she didn't even remember how she got back to her room.

Above her were the noises of yelling and a screeching violin.


End file.
